


unc dryhten scop siþ ætsomne

by izzybeth



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anglo-Saxon Christianity, Cultural Differences, M/M, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Floki has always felt the pull to the west. It's why he builds ships. Someday one of those ships is going to carry him across the western sea and he will find the one who will fill the gaping hole in his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unc dryhten scop siþ ætsomne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samyazaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/gifts).



> Title from Riddle 85 of the Exeter Book, an Anglo-Saxon collection of poetry and riddles. It loosely translates as "the two who the Lord matched must journey together".
> 
> Thanks to N for the in-house beta and putting up with my ranting about how fucking awful this show is (there was a lot of ranting). All Norse mythology cribbed from Wikipedia because I'm lazy.

Floki has always felt the pull to the west. It's why he builds ships. Someday one of those ships is going to carry him across the western sea and he will find the one who will fill the gaping hole in his heart.

He hears the gods, and he knows the gods hear him. This is how he knows that there is a someone for him across the open sea; that the tug in his chest isn't just a strong desire to travel the world and raid its treasures. Though that's good, too. Perhaps his someone will be impressed and pleased at his cleverness and bravery. He hopes so.

Floki gazes at a tall, graceful pine, and sees the curve of a flexible keel. This ship is a special one, commissioned by Ragnar who says he knows a way to cross the western sea, who says there are riches to be had in the lands they'll find there. Not everyone believes Ragnar, but Floki does.

Odin values cleverness, and so does Loki. Floki ties a piece of rope around the pine, marking it to be felled. Baldr is good and Thor delights in humans, and will protect them on their voyage. A few paces away is a strong and straight ash that will do for both the mast and its crossbeam. Once they return, perhaps Freyr and Freyja will give blessings to Floki and his someone. The oaks in the forest are sturdy and huge, and will provide good ribs and planks.

Because Floki _will_ find his someone. And he will bring them home.

— 

Floki looks over his shoulder at the little brown priest sitting in the stern among the chests of gold and silver. He looks like he's in shock, and Floki hisses. "Why did you bring that, Ragnar?"

Ragnar grins lazily. "He speaks our language. He may be a good source of information for future raids. Look at all the riches we simply took, with barely a fight at all! The priest may know of other temples with treasure ripe for the plucking."

"And if not?"

"Then I can sell him as a slave, or kill him; it hardly matters," Ragnar says.

Floki scowls at Ragnar's arrogance. "'It hardly matters'? Did it not occur to you that bringing this—this _nithing_ back to our land will anger the gods?" Floki spits at the priest's bare feet. His toes curl away from the gob on the wood of the decking. "Because they will be angry, Ragnar. Njörðr will set the sea against us, and Thor will send a storm. We'll be lucky to make it home alive."

"Or perhaps they are the ones behind him being here," Ragnar says. Floki is sure he's only saying it to irritate him further.

"Your gods are false," says the little priest. His face is white and his eyes are wide, as if he's been insulted. Floki has never heard such flagrant disrespect, not to mention unspeakable lies, in his life. In a rage, he yanks the priest up by the neck of his impractical clothing and grasps him around his throat, Floki's long, weather-worn fingers contrasting against the young man's pale skin. He clutches at Floki's wrist out of a mix of instinct and panic. Floki intends to snarl, to squeeze some respect into him, but never gets that far. The bond ignites, skin to skin, and lights up his entire self. The hole in his heart knits itself closed. He feels the priest choke and cough against his hand, and he drops him like a hot coal.

They stare at each other.

"Oh, no," the priest whispers. His shaking hands fall away from Floki's wrist, and he drops back down to the deck, drawing his knees up to his chin and turning away from Floki and Ragnar.

Floki has never been so wrong footed. He glances at Ragnar, whose shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter. His blue eyes dance, and he can't quite keep his mouth from quirking.

"You think this is funny, do you!"

"Yes," Ragnar says through a laugh. "I think this is the best thing I've ever seen—you of all people bonded to the priest!" He gives up and lets loose a great bellow of laughter, loud enough that some of the other men turn to look. "I suppose you must try not to kill each other!"

Floki casts one more look down at the priest. He has put his hood over his head, flatly ignoring everyone. Floki sneers at him and stomps up to the bow to hang on the dragon's head and keep an eye out for land.

Over the next few days, the priest speaks to no one. He nods thanks to Ragnar, who unties the ropes at his hands and feet, and to whoever gives him water or bread, but doesn't respond to any questions, not even _what is your name, priest?_ Floki stays away from him completely. He does not understand why the gods have done this to him. What has he done to deserve this? Has he so offended the gods somehow that they have sent him a little foreign witch to be his mate? He drops small bits of his daily bread ration over the side, hoping that Njörðr will continue the fair weather and good wind and not decide to capsize their little ship.

On the day Torstein spies the coasts of their lands, Ragnar rests an arm across Floki's shoulders and speaks to him quietly. "You'll have to talk to him sometime."

"Hmph," Floki grunts. He doesn't have to do any such thing.

"At least give it a chance. You have to live with him."

Floki doesn't even bother to grunt; he just shrugs, and Ragnar's arm drops from his shoulders. He wanders off to talk to Rollo, and Floki realizes that if he is worse company than Rollo, something is terribly wrong.

He glances around to make sure no one is paying him any mind, grabs a piece of dried goat meat and a tin cup of water from the stores, and sidles up to the little priest. He still sits curled up between two large chests, and has barely moved the whole voyage. Floki slides down to the decking with his back against one of the chests, and silently offers him the water and dried meat. The priest eyes him, takes the food, and shuffles so his back is toward him. Floki snorts and goes back to his spot in the bow.

Not five minutes later, he turns to see the little witch tearing the dried meat in half and sharing it with Arne. He thanks the priest, smiling, and the priest blushes into his water cup. Floki growls deep in his throat and gouges fingernail marks in the dragon's wooden neck. How dare he be familiar with the men! Not to mention the clear ingratitude for the extra food that _he_ gave him! Floki seethes and ignores him the rest of the way back to Kattegat.

— 

The Earl of course demands his share of the plunder (which is to say, all of it), so they must go present it to him. Floki drags the priest into the hall by his wrist, but lets him slip behind him and doesn't shove him forward. He doesn't intend to make a display of the priest at all, but Ragnar, the ass, cannot restrain himself and tells the story of their bonding aboard the ship. Everyone laughs, Haraldson demands to see the priest, and Floki pulls him into the light, muttering at him to be silent. The priest stumbles and glares at Floki.

"This is your mate, is it? This skinny, plain thing?" Haraldson sniggers. "Well, I suppose you'd better take him home and see what you can make out of him."

Floki smiles his most fake, most sarcastic smile, and pushes the priest back behind him.

The walk back to Floki's house is very long, and very awkward. While they are still in Kattegat, the priest actually takes Floki's hand and keeps close to him in the crowds of people. They walk with Ragnar for a while, and Ragnar talks of his wife and two children and how he is eager to see them again. Floki is sure it's for the little witch's benefit. No, of course not everyone in this strange land is a mean old troll like Floki. He rolls his eyes and walks on ahead.

When Ragnar's path breaks away from theirs, Floki grabs the priest by the wrist and drags him away toward home. Ragnar shouts a goodbye, and the boy waves back at him.

"Like him better than me, do you?"

The priest twists his wrist out of Floki's grasp, but doesn't say anything.

"As well you might. Ragnar's very likeable. Not like me. I'm a nasty old ogre who eats tasty young things like you alive."

The priest rolls his eyes. Floki snorts a laugh. "No, you're right, I'm not an ogre. But… what do you know about the god Loki?"

The boy makes a sour face and shrugs.

"Nothing?" The priest shakes his head no. "He's a tricky one, Loki is. Sometimes he helps the gods, but most times he likes to cause trouble. I'm one of his emissaries." The priest raises an eyebrow. "It's true! So you'd better look out for yourself."

The priest lags behind after that, and aside from looking back every so often to make sure he hasn't been carried off by wolves, Floki thinks nothing of it.

Until he pipes up. "Your gods aren't real, so I have nothing to fear." It's the first time Floki's heard his voice since they bonded on the ship. And again, he finds himself overcome with rage at this man, this arrogant priest, this little witch. And he can't kill him, can't even harm him, because dire things happen to those who injure their mates (even if it's deserved). Though he doesn't really want to hurt him. Maybe scare him a bit, just a little, just enough.

He stalks across the path to the priest, and raises himself up to his full height. He is tall, he knows, but he towers over this boy, who looks up into his face with the beginnings of fear in his eyes. "Little _witch,_ " he says, and raises a hand.

The priest catches Floki's raised hand with one of him own, and shoves him away from himself with his other hand. _"Never call me that,"_ he snarls as Floki stumbles backward. "I am not a witch. I'm not a priest, either. I am a monk, a brother of the Church. And my name is Athelstan." He sighs loudly as Floki gapes at him. "That's what you can call me. What do I call you?"

"Floki," he is surprised into answering.

"Like your Loki," Athelstan says.

"He's my namesake," Floki says, and giggles the rest of the way home. Perhaps this Athelstan will be a match for him after all.

— 

The days pass more quickly than Floki had thought they would. Athelstan refuses to sleep in his bed with him, and instead the boy sleeps on a bedroll near the hearth. Most mornings he finds him praying to his dead Christ or reading from his book (which Floki doesn't dare to move from where the priest keeps it and is sure must be full of evil spells and hexes) before setting to the chores. He finds that it's rather convenient to have someone to share the work with, though he notes they'll have to find a way to double the food stores before winter.

Some days they don't speak at all. Some days, the priest wanders into the forest. Floki suspects he might be using the privacy to cry over his lost life, but does not ask. On other days, Athelstan bombards him with questions (Why do the Northmen have so many gods? Where are the Christian missionaries? Why haven't they been here? Why does Floki live so far from the town? Does he have any neighbors close by? And why does he put that black stuff around his eyes?) until Floki has to flee from him into the forest and talk to the trees to calm down. He tries never to be the one to start a conversation, since it only leads to arguments and headaches.

But one evening after they have finished their meal and Athelstan is watching the cat hunt a mouse, Floki can't keep his words in any longer.

"I have been waiting for you. For a long time." Floki twists his mouth up, feeling bitter. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. His someone was not supposed to be like this! His someone was supposed to love the gods as much as he does, and delight in the spirits of the trees and the sea. Not like him. Not this man who loves a dead god, who is always angry or sad, who cannot find one single thing to love about Floki's home.

"I know." Athelstan doesn't look at him; just keeps watching the cat.

Floki twitches and thumps the floor with one hand. "No, you don't! You have no idea, priest."

He turns to look Floki in the eye. "I do, though. How do you think I felt, believing I had no one at all?"

Floki blinks. "That's stupid. Everyone has a someone." He's never heard of anyone he knows not finding their mate, or not having one to find. Being alone in the world. It might happen in sad stories, but not in reality.

"But not everyone meets theirs," he says, as if this is commonplace and not a made-up fantasy. "I waited, I traveled to far off places, and I never met you. So I gave up hoping. I took my vows. I dedicated my life to God. I was happy. And then... _then_ you came." Athelstan sighs as the cat chases the mouse out the door. "You're not what I imagined."

"Well. Neither are you."

They don't speak after that. Athelstan puts the dirty dishes in the bucket of wash water and goes to make sure all the animals are secure for the night. Floki stretches his legs toward the hearth and tries to imagine a place where not everyone finds their someone. How lonely, he thinks before he can stop himself.

— 

Floki had sent Athelstan to stay at Ragnar's farm with his children while they were away, but he is there, behind the rest of the crowd, when they return from the raid on Hexham. He hangs back with the children while Ragnar is arrested, but comes to Floki's side when the fuss has died down and the children are safely with Lagertha. "I felt it," he says quietly. "The pull between us. Did you?"

Floki remembers yanking a gold chain with the cross symbol from the fat priest in the church, trying not to feel the tug in his chest at the time. "Of course I did," he says. He still wants to hold a knife to someone's throat, but not Athelstan's.

"What will happen to Ragnar? Is it true, what they're saying?"

"I do not know if the story is true. I do not know if he killed Cnut. If he did not, I would bet all my gold that it was Lagertha who did." Floki starts toward the great hall, and feels Athelstan fall into step beside him.

The trial doesn't take much time, but Haraldson reacts as though he'd expected Rollo to say something quite different. It doesn't sit right with Floki, who keeps on his guard, at least until his friends are out of the hall.

That night, there is a party at someone's house. As Floki finds himself dancing with Leif and Arne, he sees Athelstan across the floor, spinning in a somewhat clumsy circle with Helga the _seiðr._ He's laughing, and his cheeks are flushed with drink. It occurs to Floki that he's never seen Athelstan laugh. He pours the rest of what's in his cup down his throat, and giggles to himself. No one has to know why.

Later, he drops down onto the bench Athelstan is sitting on. He turns to Floki with a smile born of ale on his face. "Hello, having a good time?"

Floki nods, and digs around in his tunic. He pulls out a golden chain with the cross the priest so loves dangling from it. "I brought you this. From England." Athelstan doesn't reach for it, and the smile drops off his face. Floki takes his hand and presses the cross into it. "Take it, priest."

He closes the priest's fingers around it, and he slips his hand out of Floki's. He opens his hand to look at the little man nailed to the cross, and looks sad. "Who did you murder to get this?" He asks.

"Well, there's gratitude for you," Floki mutters, and gets up to refill his cup. 

Which is, of course, when Haraldson's men crash through the door and ruin the party completely. Floki spares a moment to look back at Athelstan. He has upended a table and is crouching behind it with one of Ragnar's children under each arm. Lagertha stands before them, axe in hand. Good. Floki downs his ale and yanks his own axe from his belt.

— 

Floki brushes away wood shavings from a new figurehead. It will go on the next ship he builds. It is Njörðr's head, mouth shaped as if to blow a strong wind for the ship's voyages. It's the least Floki can do in thanks for the gift of being alive after the summer raids.

He pauses when soft footsteps enter his shed. He looks up to see Athelstan standing by the skeleton of the new ship. "You are a carpenter."

"Yes. I build ships, but other things too."

Athelstan smiles to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"Jesus was a carpenter."

Floki recoils. "Your dead god? The one hung upon a cross?"

"Did you learn it from your father?" Floki nods, scowling. "So did Jesus."

"I thought you said his father was your god and that they are the same," Floki says, snapping his fingers at him.

"Jesus's earthly father, I mean. Mary's husband. His name was Joseph," says Athelstan.

The boy's stupid religion is so confusing. Floki snorts and waves him away, like he would an irritating fly. Athelstan doesn't leave, though; he runs a hand over the framework of the unfinished ship. "Can I help?"

"You don't know anything about shipbuilding."

"Then teach me. I'm not stupid. I can learn."

So he does. Athelstan proves himself to be adept at the shaping and building of the ships' sleek bodies, of understanding how the pieces fit together to cut through the seas, but making the ships beautiful and worthy of the gods' protection is beyond him. He cannot work the complicated knots or recreate a face with hammer and chisel. He has no gift for artistry in wood, so it surprises Floki when he catches him carving the shape of a person clumsily from a piece of scrap one day.

He doesn't see Floki watching him carve, but after a moment he tosses it to the ground in frustration, and leaves the shed. Floki creeps in and picks up the discarded wood. It's a crude carving, to be sure, but he can tell it is meant to be a woman. There must be a woman somewhere in that useless religion, and Floki knows just where to look to find out.

After Athelstan is asleep that night, Floki gathers all his courage and pulls the book from the leather bag Athelstan keeps it in. It is the first time Floki's touched it, and he is half relieved that the dead Christ doesn't destroy him on the spot. He flips through the pages, keeping his fingers away from the strange writing that he can't read. Nor does he touch the colorful pictures which seem to leap off the page in the firelight. He lifts the pages by their edges, and turns and turns until he sees a figure holding a child. There is no hair on the figure's face, so he thinks it's a good bet that it's a woman. These drawings were clearly done by idiots, he thinks, if he can find no way to tell which ones are men and which are women. 

The figure wears a white gown and a blue cloak, and there is a golden circle behind her head. There's one behind the baby's head too, which Floki finds odd. He wonders if this is the Mary Athelstan has spoken about with such reverence. He stares at the picture until he can see it when he closes his eyes, and then he puts the book back where he found it and crawls into bed. Surely _this_ will make the boy happy.

The next day, he chases Athelstan from the shed more times than he can count. He does not wish for him to see what he is doing, but each excuse for him not to be there is flimsier than the last. Finally Athelstan walks off in a huff, muttering that he thought Floki _wanted_ his help building the ships.

That evening Floki gives the wooden Mary to Athelstan. Floki is rather proud of it; he dyed the cloak blue and the head-circle-thing yellow, and darkened the eyes. He couldn't resist turning the cross in the book's picture into Thor's hammer, though. The shapes were almost the same, what difference could it make?

Athelstan stares at the wooden woman in amazement. "You made this?" He asks, as though it weren't obvious. Floki nods anyway. Athelstan touches the blue of the Mary's robe with his fingertips. "It's—" He starts, but then his eyes fall on the hammer. "What is that," he says, voice utterly flat.

"Thor's hammer," Floki says, like it's nothing. "It looks enough like the cross thing, so I thought—"

Athelstan pushes past him and throws the wooden Mary into the fire. "How dare you."

"What?" Floki makes a grab for the wooden woman, but it's far too late. The fire creeps across the wood, blackening it beyond recognition.

"How could you do that? How could you defile the Virgin like that?"

"It's just the hammer, everyone wears it!" Virgin, what virgin? The woman in the book had been holding a baby.

"She—I love the Virgin Mary, with all my heart, but you just don't _listen_ to me! You never listen!" Athelstan's eyes are bright, as though he's holding back tears.

Floki is completely baffled. "If you love her then why did you throw her into the fire?"

"Because you carved that—that thing onto her! That evil pagan symbol! How could you be that cruel?" His face is red, and he swipes at his eyes.

"I was trying to do something you would like!" Floki roars. "You don't like anything, and only the gods know why we're meant to be together but we _are,_ so I try but this is the thanks I get! You ungrateful little _boy._ "

Athelstan stops, sniffling hard and covers his face with his hands. "Something I would _like?_ Why would I like anything about your false gods and your idolatry?" He's gone from despair to bitter anger, and Floki isn't sure which is worse. "You are cruel, but worse, you worship pagan idols and know nothing of Christ's love, and—and your house is damp and your people are violent and frightening and I'm so tired of eating fish all the time and I'm so lonely and I miss my brothers—" Athelstan bites his lips hard, and runs out the door before Floki can stop him.

Floki secludes himself in his shed, carving at a sternpost. Chunks of oak fly everywhere with the force of his anger and frustration. The boy stomps into the shed and _starts talking again,_ making Floki snarl under his breath.

"All right, I can't take this anymore."

"What." Floki doesn't stop his work, though he knows by now he's ruined the sternpost.

"This—this fighting between us!" Athelstan smacks his fist against a roofpost.

"You think this is fighting, priest? I can show you real fighting if you like." Floki gives him his best, most frightening and menacing grin.

It has no affect on him. "You know what I mean!"

"I don't."

"It's so exhausting being at odds with you. I can't do it anymore." The boy seems to deflate a little. "I'm just tired." His face is red and still a little damp, as if he dried it carelessly on his sleeve.

Floki's ire cools a little. He can't say he doesn't know how Athelstan feels. In the interests of peace, he makes his best offer. "I think there will be one more raid to the west this summer."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I will take you back to England."

"What?" Athelstan's eye go wide, as if that was the last thing he'd expected to hear.

"I thought that was what you just said! Isn't that what you want?" Floki throws the ruined sternpost to the ground in his frustration.

"No!"

"Then what _do_ you want, priest?"

"I want to stop being your enemy." Floki looks up at him, warily, but he's also interested in spite of himself. "I don't know if we'll ever be friends. But I'm so tired of being your enemy." Athelstan reaches out to him, palms upward in a hopeful gesture. "Aren't you?"

"But you don't want to go back to your land."

"What would I do there? All my family is dead, my blood family and my brothers; I have nowhere to go."

Floki sighs and stands to face him. "I suppose I am sick of it too."

"All right." Athelstan leans against the post like the entire conversation has sapped all his energy. Floki feels the same. "Then what do we do?"

"The gods—my gods, your god, whoever—made us for each other for a reason. We must find out what that reason is."

When the sun is sinking and they're eating the evening meal, the house is tidy and the animals looked after, they sit by the hearth in a somewhat awkward silence. Floki looks into the flames and turns over the words they flung at each other that day. He doesn't feel good about it, but he supposes the tension had to crack eventually.

Athelstan jolts Floki from his thoughts. "Tell me a story."

"About the gods?"

"If you like."

"And you won't argue or ask questions?"

"I'll be quiet as a mouse. At least until you're done." The boy smiles cheekily, and Floki narrows his eyes at him.

"Fine." Floki thinks for a moment, and then decides on a story that it would simply be embarrassing for him not to know. "Shining Baldr dreamed his own death, and his mother Frigga, wife of Odin, dreamed the same dream, so they knew it would come to pass if something wasn't done. Frigga made everything in all the realms vow never to hurt or injure Baldr, and so he was safe. Yet the mistletoe did not take the vow, because it was too young."

"How can mistletoe—"

"Shht!" Floki snaps his fingers at Athelstan, who clamps his lips together. "So clever Loki crafted a spear from the mistletoe, and gave it to the blind god Höðr, who had joined in the new game of throwing things at Baldr. All the gods thought it was a great joke, for he could not be injured by any object. Höðr threw the spear at Baldr, who was killed."

"How can a god be killed—"

"Priest!" Athestan makes a frustrated noise, but stops talking. Floki continues. "Odin and Rindr the giantess created their son Váli who grew to manhood in a single day and killed Höðr for the murder of Baldr."

"But wasn't it Loki who—"

"One more interruption, priest, and—"

"Oh, and what?"

"And I won't finish. And it will make you crazy not knowing. Yes?"

"...Yes." It's the closest Floki has ever seen the priest come to sulking. He snorts a triumphant giggle.

"So. Hel promised to release Baldr from her realm if all things would grieve for him. Everything in all the realms wept and wailed over beautiful Baldr. Thor burned Litr the dwarf on Baldr's funeral pyre. Nanna, Baldr's wife, threw herself upon the pyre in grief and devastation. All mourned. Except one. The giantess Thökk refused to mourn, and Hel saw, and Baldr still remains in the underworld, where he will stay until Ragnarök."

"Why did—" Athelstan claps a hand over his mouth.

Floki rolls his eyes. He was done, anyway. "Oh, just ask."

"Why did the giantess refuse to mourn? What was it to her? Did she hate Baldr?"

"Ah, well, it's because Thökk was actually Loki in disguise."

Athelstan looks unimpressed. "That seems rather convenient."

"Do you want to hear how the gods got their retribution upon him?"

"Of course, if you want to tell it."

"Loki had caused much trouble for the gods aside from contriving Baldr's death, so much so that the goddess Skaði tied Loki up with his son Nari's intestines and trapped him in a cave far underground." Floki cackles softly at the look of shock mingled with disgust on Athelstan's face. "She bound a poisonous serpent above his head so that the venom would drip onto Loki's face and cause him unbearable agony. Loki's wife Sigyn holds a vessel above his face to catch the venom, but once it fills she must leave to empty it out. When the venom touches Loki, his writhing and thrashing make the earth rumble and quake. When Ragnarok comes, Loki will slip free of his bonds and lead the giants in a war against the gods."

"And who will win?"

Floki looks at him sidelong. He's hesitant to tell the story of Ragnarök, but Athelstan doesn't know it. And it's only the two of them. "No one. Three winters with no summer will cover the world, Fenrir the wolf will eat Sun, Moon, and all the stars, and all those who now reside in Valhalla will prepare for battle. Fenrir will swallow Odin whole, Surtr the giant will cover the world in flames, and all the gods will die." Athelstan appears upset at the end of the world, and Floki can't hold back another little giggle. "But! Two humans survive, and Sun's daughter will live to step the path of her mother through the sky. The world will turn green again. So it's not so bad."

Athelstan doesn't appear to agree with that, so Floki grabs an apple and bites into it. "Now you sing me a story, priest. Tell me how you Christians say the world will end."

He nods, and makes to begin, but a shout from outside interrupts him. Ragnar's son Bjorn is running up the path, Gyda right behind him, shouting that their father is dying and they need help.

—

It's well after dark by the time they're certain Ragnar can be left alone for the night. He is still feverish, but the wound is thankfully burned clean. They make a more comfortable bed for him out of Athelstan's bedroll near the hearth, and Lagertha and the children curl up together close to him. Floki is sure Lagertha will spend the night keeping watch over her husband.

Athelstan wipes his hands clean of blood with a damp rag and passes it to Floki, who does the same. He can tell what the priest is thinking: _Where will I sleep tonight?_ He decides to head that off before it becomes an issue, and pushes him gently toward his bed. Athelstan is obviously tired enough that he doesn't fight him (though he does raise an eyebrow at Floki's presumption), and curls up with his back to Floki under the blanket Floki pulls over them both.

Floki is just drifting off when soft whispers, so quiet as to be almost inaudible, wake him again. He blinks in the dim light of the half moon to see Athelstan unclasping his hands and making the crossing motion that he makes when he's done praying to his Christ. "What are you doing?" Floki whispers, rather louder than Athelstan had been whispering.

He jumps, and looks over his shoulder. "Praying. As you should be," he says, all defiance.

"I was. The whole time," Floki says. While Lagertha set the heated knife to Ragnar's wound, while they covered it with garlic, lavender, and ash, he prayed to Odin, Frigga, and Eir with all his might. "You think your Christ is going to save the life of a heathen?"

"I was praying to the Blessed Virgin Mary, actually. I was asking her to help us save Ragnar." Athelstan twists to lie on his back. "She intercedes on our behalf."

"So you do have a goddess!"

"No, she's—look, can we talk about this later? We're all exhausted."

"I am teasing you, priest." Floki grins, and shuts his eyes. "Good night." Having another body in his bed is odd, but he thinks he could become accustomed to it.

He wakes in the morning to find Athelstan still sleeping, the priest's back pressed up against his front, his arm tucked around his middle, and his nose buried in the dark curls at the back of Athelstan's neck. He also finds Lagertha standing over them, a mischievous grin on her face.

"I see you two have come to an understanding."

"Something like that," Floki grumbles, and carefully pulls himself away from Athelstan, who sighs, but doesn't wake.

"I thought I'd let you sleep a bit. Ragnar's still feverish, but no worse."

"That is good," he says, and as he climbs over the priest, he sees a gold chain around his neck, disappearing under his shirt. He doesn't mention it to Athelstan, but it pleases him just the same.

Ragnar is a terrible invalid, but that comes as a surprise to no one. It's hard enough making him keep to his bed and not tear his skin open once more, but a week later, when Torstein arrives to relate the story of Haraldson's trickery and Rollo's torture, Ragnar almost heaves himself out of his bed and it takes Athelstan, Torstein, and Lagertha to hold him down while Floki pinches his nose and mouth shut to make him pass out. Torstein apologizes for upsetting Ragnar, Floki mutters darkly about tying Ragnar up with ropes and belts, and Athelstan observes that it could do him no harm. Lagertha chokes back a laugh, and reassures the children that their father is fine, just sleeping.

When Ragnar wakes his bed is surrounded, yet he still tries to rise. The only thing that stops him is little Gyda, who holds his hand and begs him to stay and let his body heal. Ragnar settles back with a scowl and a wince, but acquiesces. Athelstan returns to dishing out the fish soup, and Floki gathers everyone up for the evening meal.

Days pass, the snow begins to fly, and still Ragnar is not healed. Floki's house is small for six people, and shrinks even more when Torstein visits. They spend their days as productively as they can. When the day's work is done, Lagertha trains with Gyda, Floki does his best with Bjorn since his father is unavailable, and Athelstan spends his time in the house, teaching Ragnar English and surreptitiously looking after him. Once, Floki overhears Ragnar asking Athelstan "how things are working out with Floki," accompanied by a broad wink. Floki cringes, but Athelstan only raises an eyebrow at Ragnar and answers him, rapidly and at length, in English. Floki giggles, and Bjorn takes the opportunity to whack his shins with the practice sword.

Still, it's not so bad, Floki thinks, especially when night has fallen, Ragnar is happily drowsy from food, and they tell stories. To everyone's surprise, Athelstan is an excellent storyteller, and Floki wonders if it's a born talent or if all the English are taught to be _skalds._ When Athelstan tells a story, his eyes light up, his hands wave about, and the place in Floki's chest where Athelstan touches him glows. The priest tells the story of how the Christians say the world was made; he tells of how the first man and woman were created, how they were made for each other and were the first bonded pair, and how they then were tricked by a serpent into eating from a forbidden tree whose fruits held all knowledge, and thus fell from his god's graces. It's a fascinating story, and everyone has an opinion about it. Lagertha thinks it's unjust that all women are blamed for one woman's mistake. Ragnar declares that he would have chosen to eat from the tree no matter what any god said, and Floki agrees. After everyone goes to bed, Floki pokes the priest until he rolls over.

"What?" He hisses.

"Is there more to that story? With the fruit?"

"Well, yes, I simplified it for ease of telling." Athelstan considers. "It's quite long, actually; it's part of a book of the Bible, but some years ago it was made into a poem. Which is also quite long," he says.

"Do you know it?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell it to me?"

"Not now!"

"No, but someday."

"Someday, yes." Athelstan turns over again so his back is toward Floki, and relaxes against him. It's better than habit by now. It's comfortable. "Now go to sleep."

"Yes, priest."

— 

Ragnar asks Floki to go to Kattegat and challenge Haraldson in his name, and how can Floki do anything but agree? He loves Ragnar, loves him with all his wild forest heart. Before he leaves, he makes time to speak to the priest.

Floki draws him outside and down to the shed by the fjord which is rapidly freezing over. "If it should happen that Haraldson defeats Ragnar—" 

"He can't—" 

"He very well could, priest, now listen to me!" Athelstan, for once, shuts up and listens. "I want you to take an axe with you when we leave for Kattegat. If Haraldson wins it will likely lead to more violence between those who support him and those who support Ragnar. If Ragnar should die, I want you to take Bjorn and Gyda and _run._ "

"Where?"

"Anywhere! Get out of Kattegat and just go."

"But how will you find us?"

Floki takes Athelstan's hand in his own and presses it against his chest. "How do you think?"

Athelstan nods, and pushes harder against Floki's heart. "Don't die."

Floki takes his hand between both of his own. "We may be worrying for nothing. Ragnar has a good chance at success."

Athelstan nods, but doesn't look convinced. "Would it—" He presses his lips together and shakes his head.

"What, Athelstan?"

He sighs. "Would it be… wrong if I prayed for his success?"

Floki doesn't let go of his hand. "No, priest. Ragnar needs all the help he can get. And I ought to know by now that you're not cursing us all with your foreign words." Athelstan huffs a laugh, and impulsively, Floki leans down and kisses his forehead. "Come on, I have to be on my way while there's still light."

— 

Ragnar does defeat Haraldson, and the only people who seem to weep over it are Haraldson's wife and daughter. (No one weeps over Swein, the cruel bastard.) After the old earl is dead and Ragnar is proclaimed the new earl, Lagertha wastes no time in bullying Ragnar into the great hall so all his wounds, half-healed and fresh, can be seen to. It will be some time before he can fight without pain again, but luckily winter is coming on and he'll have plenty of time to heal before the summer raids start.

The slaves know their place and immediately start preparing a great feast, complete with barrels of ale set outside so everyone can dip in. Floki has a mission: procure ale; find priest; get priest drunk. He will not fail in this.

He does find Athelstan eventually, after roaming the entire village and refilling the horns more than a few times. He's in the great hall, helping Lagertha dress Ragnar's wounds and fetching and carrying and doing all sorts of helpful things that are not drinking with Floki, so it isn't to be tolerated.

"Is the priest being a help to you, Lagertha?"

"Oh no, he's constantly underfoot and in the way," Lagertha says, briskly taking a folded blanket from Athelstan's hands. "And he knows nothing of the healing arts. He's completely useless; please take him somewhere else."

Athelstan looks as if someone has given his last sweet cake to the pigs. Lagertha bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Ragnar isn't even bothering to hide his sniggering.

"I've told you so many times, priest, you must learn to be useful or else you'll never make a place for yourself here and I'll have to dump you out into the snow and let you fend for yourself," Floki scolds, taking Athelstan by the elbow. He pulls him outside before he can protest as Lagertha and Ragnar laugh.

He sits Athelstan down on an empty bench next to a barrel of ale, and shoves a drinking horn into his hands. "Drink with me," he says as he slides an arm around the priest's waist to keep him from getting up.

Athelstan still seems a little put out from the teasing. "You smell as though you've had enough for the both of us."

"Not possible," Floki says. "I can only drink enough for myself, and I am not done yet."

"Fine," he huffs, and downs the ale that's in his horn. It doesn't seem like more than a mouthful to Floki, but he may have spilled some. "All right?"

"No," Floki says, and refills both horns. "Again."

It takes Athelstan longer to empty the horn this time, and he makes a face. "You don't even bother to make it taste nice, do you?"

"Why? Nice isn't the point."

"I suppose. Well?" He waggles the horn at Floki until he snorts and refills it. After a few more repetitions of emptying and refilling the horn and a few leading questions from Floki, he's slumped against his side, holding the horn in nerveless fingers, talking calmly about his past. 

"My parents and brothers died when I was very young, six or seven years maybe. We all caught the fever and I was the only one who survived. I had no other family. But the church in my village was able to send me to the brothers at Lindisfarne." Athelstan takes a slow sip of ale. "I chose to stay when I was old enough, since I knew that I had little chance of finding my someone. About four years ago, before I took my solemn vows, Father Cuthbert sent me and some other sisters and brothers out into the world as missionaries, which they make you do if you're ready to take your vows but are still unbonded, just in case you find your someone while you're traveling. They expect you to, actually." He doesn't say and I didn't, but Floki hears it anyway. "We sailed east, and ended up south of here, I think, Hedeby was the name of the town. It's where I learned to speak your language."

Something connects in Floki's brain. Hedeby is not that far from Kattegat. "Four years ago?"

"Yes."

"I remember feeling the pull lessen that winter." Floki remembers delighting in the sensation, thinking that _any day now, I will meet my someone!_ Of course it hadn't happened. "Did you feel it?"

"I… I don't remember. I remember being happy in Hedeby, and I thought I was doing the work I was meant to be doing. I was so sure that I would never meet you, that I was meant for God, and I stopped paying attention to it."

"You gave up hope." Floki remembers Athelstan saying that, so many weeks ago when the leaves were still green. He lets the arm around his waist migrate up to curve around his shoulders, and Athelstan shifts against him, getting comfortable.

"Yes."

"I never did."

"I'm glad. Though, be honest, on the ship before we touched, you'd just as soon have killed me and tossed my poor corpse overboard." Athelstan giggles, as though he actually finds the possibility funny. He is quite drunk, and Floki does not envy the headache he'll have in the morning. "I do remember, the night before your ship arrived at Lindisfarne, I was so anxious. I vomited twice. And I couldn't explain what I was feeling. I tried to talk to Father Cuthbert about it, but he assumed I was ill and sent me down to the infirmary." 

"Oh, priest."

The sun is barely set and the sky's colors run from orange to dark blue. The chill shadows in Kattegat's streets have chased most of the day's revelers indoors, and Floki and Athelstan have the ale barrel to themselves. He slips a tentative arm around Floki's waist. "Sometimes I wonder… I wonder if God has turned His back on me."

"And why would you think that?"

"Because I'm a vowbreaker."

"How do you figure?" Floki can't imagine a world in which Athelstan would be unfaithful to anything he put his trust in. 

"How am I not? I vowed to remain at Lindisfarne, yet here I am. I vowed to own no material goods, but I have the book, and who knows how many other bits and pieces I've picked up in these few months. And—" Athelstan cuts himself off with a soft, strangled noise. "I vowed to remain chaste for my whole life, but I've been sleeping in a man's bed for weeks." 

"In the bed, yes, but we've never—" 

"God doesn't care about following His law to the letter!" Athelstan cries. He sits up and stares at Floki with desperate eyes. "Don't you understand? It's like—leaving out part of the truth is still lying. Break the spirit of His law, and you've sinned."

Floki doesn't know what to say to him. Athelstan loves his threefold god just as much as Floki loves his vast host, and he doesn't fault him for not wanting to anger his god. But it does seem that the Christian god demands the impossible of his followers, so much so as to take all the joy out of life.

Athelstan settles back against Floki and tangles the fingers of their free hands together. "Sorry. It's just… hard, sometimes."

He shouldn't ask again, but the priest probably won't remember any of this later. "I can still take you back to England."

"No!" Athelstan tightens his hand in Floki's. "I can't go back. And I don't want to. So please stop asking."

"All right." The sky is completely dark now, and the stars wink down at their drunken selves. He stands and brings the priest with him, making him groan in protest. "Come on, we're going inside."

"No, it's nice here."

"Say that in the morning when you have frost clinging to your nose."

He follows Floki into the great hall, where he drags an empty bench close to the fire and pulls the boy down onto it with him. He must be very drunk indeed, because as Floki wraps them both in someone's discarded cloak, he rests his head on Floki's chest, curls close to him, and is asleep in moments. He ghosts a hand over Athelstan's tangle of curls and sleeps.

Floki wakes to the normal sounds of the earl's great hall coming alive, and also to Athelstan's slight, warm body stretching and moving against his own. He would enjoy it, except for the clanging headache behind his eyes. Athelstan blinks his eyes open and looks down at Floki. His eyes are clear and alert, and his face is smooth and free of pain.

The priest isn't even hung over! And he'd had twice as much to drink as Floki had, he'd made sure of it.

He sits up, rolling Athelstan off of him and placing a hand over his eyes. Even the dim light of the hall is too much. Athelstan disappears as Floki considers dunking his head in a bucket of water, but he returns holding a cup which he holds out to him.

"What is it?"

"Just some small beer. You'll feel better," he says, biting back a grin.

"Hmph," Floki grunts as he takes the cup. He downs it in a few gulps. "What are you laughing at?"

"Well, it seems as though there's at least one thing we English do better than you Northmen."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Hold our ale." 

Athelstan isn't even trying to disguise his amusement now. Floki would be insulted, but he's never seen Athelstan smile like this before. It's like a gentle rain after a long dry spell. Floki never thought he would describe a man as gentle, but it fits Athelstan, and Floki can't imagine him another way.

"Well," he says, getting to his feet, "shall I tell you what we northmen are best at?" Athelstan doesn't say anything, just looks at Floki with amusement and fondness. Floki has no choice but to wrap a hand around the back of Athelstan's neck and pull him in for a kiss.

It's a very chaste kiss, just a warm press of lips to lips, but Athelstan looks dizzy when Floki pulls away. "We're very good at that," he says, and is gratified, relieved, and elated all at once when Athelstan smiles and leans up for another.


End file.
